


Patience and Hesitation

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 08:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6649156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis knows to be patient - knows that he must be patient.  Lets Porthos come to him.  (Coda fic for 3x01)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patience and Hesitation

**Author's Note:**

> **SPOILERS FOR 3x01, THE SPOILS OF WAR.**   
>  How that road trip into the woods with explosions and laughter _should_ have ended, tbh.

It’s been four years. Four years since Porthos kissed Aramis. Four years since he saw Porthos smile at him. Four years since Porthos touched him – at all, in friendship, in love. Four years since he heard Porthos laugh. Four years. 

Aramis can’t help but smile at the sting of memory, to fight off any melancholy the thought might elicit. Four years ago since he felt the scratch of his beard, the touch of his fingers to his jaw, cupping his chin, thumb at his cheek. It’s been so long since then. So long since he felt the curve of Porthos’ smile against his lips, the bubble of laughter against his tongue. Felt the heavy, present reassurance of Porthos pressing to him. Four years since Aramis curled himself around Porthos, since he let himself know just how deeply he was – is – in love. It’s been so long. 

Four years. But now he’s felt the force of Porthos’ smile, the sound of his laugh as they lay sprawled out in the dirt. The weight of Porthos’ hand at his shoulder, or hitting his stomach lightly as he lets himself laugh – louder, fuller. He remembers this laugh. As if he could ever forget the sound of it – forget how it has always been one of his very favorite sounds in the entire world. 

Porthos’ laughter dies, slowly, but the smile remains. He turns his head towards him, expression fond. And it’s so, so different from being down in the cellar of the monastery – the bristle of Porthos’ shoulders, the way he tore himself away from him physically every time Aramis should step near his space. Aramis holds his breath. Waits. Makes himself wait. At times, he can be patient. At times—

He wants, so desperately, to reach out to him. He wants, so desperately, for Porthos to reach for him. But he can wait. It’s Porthos’ choice, it’s only if Porthos could want him again. He can wait. He swallows down thickly. 

He hasn’t kissed Porthos in four years. He hasn’t kissed _anyone_ in four years. The beginnings of jealousy twist up in his gut – thinking, of course Porthos has kissed someone since Aramis. It’s been four years. It’s Porthos. He’s likely had lovers. It’s Porthos – how could he not have found someone who could look at him gently, who could let themselves be kissed by him? 

He knows it must reflect on his face. He sees the way Porthos studies him. They’ve been quiet now for far longer than they should, but neither of them have moved to get up. 

Porthos studies his face for a moment. 

Aramis doesn’t bother to mask the longing. He says, voice and hushed, “Porthos…”

And that seems enough – Porthos breathes out. Then shifts – rolling over towards him, bracing a hand on the other side of Aramis’ shoulder and leans down over him. He kisses Aramis – full and firm against the mouth, and Aramis lets out a breathless whine he didn’t realize he’d make. He shakes for a moment, overwhelmed even with that, before his hands reach up – shaking, grasp at his shoulders and dig in, hooking at the edge of the metal of his armor. The sound he makes is breathless, ridiculous – four years ago, Porthos would have teased him for the sound – but now it feels too much like something clicking into place, missing it. _Missing it._

It helps, too, that Porthos lets out a shaky breath against his mouth and he doesn’t have to say anything for Aramis to know everything that Porthos has not said – how much it hurt to let him go, how much it hurt to see him again, how _happy_ he was to know he still lived, how desperately he’d missed him—

Porthos cups his cheek with his free hand, tips Aramis’ chin up, and kisses him harder. Aramis lets out a weak little moan – overwhelmed just with this – and kisses him back. He wastes no time closing the distance between their bodies, his arms around Porthos’ neck, tugging him down. They kiss desperately like that, in the dirt, a stick poking uncomfortably into Aramis’ armpit and likely with soot and leaves in his hair, but he doesn’t _care_ , not when Porthos is here again, not when—

Porthos deepens the kiss and Aramis can’t breathe. And for so many seconds, Aramis’ chest aches with longing, with understanding just how fully he’d missed this – so many years spent convincing himself otherwise, if only for self-preservation, if only because wishing for the impossible would not let him do right by the children in his care. _God._ To have this now, again, after so long—

His fingers curl up into Porthos’ hair. Hold tight. Arches his back, bowing up, gasping out into the kiss and unsure what else to do. He deepens the kiss, drags his teeth over Porthos’ bottom lip, licks into his mouth, grasps at him tightly as if afraid that this will disappear, that this will be just a dream, or a delusion, or something that will _end_ and—

“Aramis,” Porthos whispers into his mouth and it’s _too much_ , feeling the full weight of his name on Porthos’ breath, the way that so much is said and so very little is said in the span of so few syllables. This, God, this is what he’s missed. More than anything else. More than he’s let himself believe. 

It’s strange and familiar – then remembered all at once. Porthos shifts above him and Aramis tugs him down, and their bodies fit together the way they used to, mouths and tongues and hands all gentle against each other. There is the note of desperation in the way Aramis drags his teeth, in the way Porthos is purposefully, painfully holding himself back – not letting himself want as much as he needs to want. Aramis cannot blame him. They are outside. And Porthos doesn’t yet know what will happen – neither of them do – if they will get out of this alive, if this will be the last time he sees Aramis. And Aramis—

Aramis does not know. Does not want to be thinking this much. 

He pushes. Porthos rolls away, breathes out when they break for air – looks as if he might withdraw. And instead Aramis keeps pushing, lets Porthos fall onto his back. Climbs up on top of him, straddles him, pushes down against him – and kisses him harder still. Cups his cheeks, drags his thumbs over his beard, whines out his name as he kisses him again and again – not wanting this to end, not ready for this to end. _Needing._ Needing, so painfully, now that he has let himself need. He fears he will crush himself underneath the heavy weight of longing like this. 

They are strangers now in each other’s lives. As much as Aramis wants to pretend it is not the case – when he breaks the kiss to kiss desperately at his jaw, his neck, he sees a line of a scar leading from the base of Porthos’ neck underneath his armor and does not recognize it, does not recognize the hand that crafted it for him. It has been years since he’s felt this solid, steady bulk beneath him, years since he felt the way Porthos’ hands skim across his ribs, cup his hips. Years since he kissed him like this, anyone like this, and felt so overwhelmed from it. This used to be enough only for a tease, and now Aramis feels as if he will not be able to cope if he does not rein himself in. 

He breathes out heavily, clenches his eyes shut, and presses his forehead to Porthos’. Drags his fingers over his face, touches at the thin line of his scar from forehead to cheek, across his eye. This one he remembers. This one he could trace in darkness. He gulps in air, greedy, wanting to keep kissing him and knowing that they can’t linger out here for too long.

“Aramis,” Porthos whispers against his mouth and Aramis shivers, knows what Porthos will say and not wanting to hear it, not ready to let him go, not ready to say goodbye. Once was enough. Twice was too much. A third time? He cannot. Four years without him is cruel – and he is the reason for it. 

Porthos touches his cheek. Aramis leans into the touch, blinks his eyes open. Porthos is watching him, face flushed, lips kiss-swollen. He’s breathing heavily. He, too, is not unaffected by this. 

Aramis makes a mournful sound and covers the hand on his cheek with his own, drags his fingers lightly over the gauntlets stitching of metal over his knuckles – wishes it was his hands freed, to feel the heat of his skin against his skin. 

This will do. This is enough. God, let it be enough. The longing burns so deep within him that he’s sure, now, that the flame will never go out again.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on [my tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/).


End file.
